Her Old Determination
by Sunflowerrei
Summary: Pre-season 2, episode 1. The moment Sybil Crawley decided to become a nurse and how she got there.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously. This is an AU of season 2, episode 1. I may have written it based on preview clips, hence it isn't canon.

**Autumn 1916**

Their mornings were much the same as ever.

Lady Sybil rose, rang for Anna to help her dress, and once decent, made her way down the grand carpeted staircase to the dining room. William, now the first footman, opened the cavernous door for her. She smiled at him as she walked inside.

It was rather cloudy outside and the light that filtered in through the great windows was muted, gray. Rather appropriate, Sybil thought, for she felt rather muted herself as of late. A little down, Mama had pronounced just the other day.

"Darling, perhaps you needn't read the papers as much," Mama had said.

"But Mama," Sybil argued in a reasonable tone. "There's a war on. It's unpleasant, but I feel I must know what is going on. After all, Matthew is there."

Mama had pursed her lips and urged Sybil to sit and help her knit socks for their poor boys in the trenches. Sybil felt as if she had been knitting ever since the war started.

Carson stood beside the sideboard, breakfast sitting in a variety of dishes over burners. Sybil smiled at the butler and perused the food.

Papa was already sitting at the head of the table, dressed in his military uniform. He was reading a letter with a great deal of concentration. The uniform meant only one thing: that Papa would take the train to York today, where he often carried out his duties as the new Lord Lieutenant of Yorkshire.

Mama sat at his left, reading a letter.

The newspaper lay beside Papa's plate. Sybil itched to read the headlines. How was that endless battle going? How many more men had it taken?

"Good morning, Papa, Mama," Sybil said, laying her half-filled plate down and pulling out her chair. Mary waltzed into the room then, her expression glum.

"Good morning, Sybil," Papa said.

"Good morning, dear," Mama said, glancing away from her letter for a moment to give her daughter a smile.

Sybil sat. Mary soon sat across from her, her plate nearly empty. Edith entered and though she sat beside Mary, they did not acknowledge each other's presence.

Carson approached the table. There was a message for Edith and letters for Mary and Sybil.

Sybil read hers slowly. It was from her friend Georgiana Macdonald. They had come out as debutantes together two years ago and had known each other as occasional playmates since they were very young.

_We've had some terribly sad news. You know that my brother Vivian left his law firm to go to the front last year? His letters had stopped last month and as the fighting was reported to be particularly awful, we thought that perhaps Viv was much too busy to write. Mama, as you can imagine, was anxious. _

Sybil heard a chuckle. She scanned the table to see her sisters engrossed in their letters, but Papa was sitting back with a satisfied expression.

"I don't believe it," he said.

"Please say it's something nice," Mama said with a warning in her voice.

_I can scarcely believe it myself, _Georgiana wrote.

"General Robertson has invited me to be the colonel of the North Riding Volunteers."

_The letter from his superior officer came not two hours ago. Vivian is dead. _

"Oh, Robert," Mama sighed.

Sybil felt her breath leave her body in a rush. She felt light-headed, then blinked, and she felt fresh, hot tears swim in her eyes before leaking over.

Vivian Macdonald—dead? He was Georgiana's elder brother and a rising barrister in the London courts. He had a serious demeanor, his suit always in place, his brown hair never unruly, but he danced divinely. Once, when they were all very young, Vivian announced that he would be glad to rescue Sybil from any dragon or monster. Sybil had huffed; why ever would she need a boy to rescue her?

He was at least the fifth man that Sybil had grown up with to be taken by this blasted war, the third man that Sybil had spent time with during that fairytale first Season to die.

Sybil swiped away the tears, tried to breath normally. Breakfast finished soon enough. Mama went to meet with Mrs. Hughes. Papa asked Carson to have Branson bring the car around. Edith went somewhere. Mary walked in the opposite direction.

And soon, Sybil could have at Papa's newspaper. She didn't want to read about any more horrors, didn't want to hear any more about young, vital men being killed.

Yet, as she tucked the paper under her arm and let the tears flow freely, she couldn't stop from torturing herself with the news.

# # #

Branson returned from dropping His Lordship off at the station. He stopped the car just outside of the garage, intending to see about the engine, which was making an odd noise. Sybil waited in a chair placed nearby, engrossed in the paper. She often did this, sitting outside the garage on a sunny morning or afternoon for anywhere from a few minutes to an hour at a time, claiming that she needed the time away from her sisters.

Seeing how Lady Mary and Lady Edith had been pointedly not speaking to each other—or at least, not speaking any more than was absolutely necessary—he understood why Sybil needed her escapes. The last time he'd driven the elder Crawley daughters to Ripon, all Branson could hear was a occasional barbed remark and an unrelenting silence.

He heard her low muttering from a few feet away. She often did that, as well, he had come to learn.

"You know, milady, muttering to yourself is the first sign of—" Branson's voice drifted off as he stopped directly in front of Sybil. "Sybil? It's not Mr. Crawley? His Lordship didn't say…"

She threw the paper on the ground. "No!" Her eyes felt all cried out. She shook her head. "No."

Branson crossed himself. "But it is someone."

"Yes," Sybil nodded. "I'm sorry. I know I always come to you when someone I know dies and it isn't right for me to burden you with it. You don't know them."

Branson kneeled down. Sybil played with her fingers. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her hair looked as if she had run her hand through it several times, coming loose as it was from its pins. She looked utterly pathetic and yet, utterly beautiful.

"You listened when I was all a-twitter about the news from home about the Rising," Branson pointed out. He had fumed for weeks—his blood still boiled, thinking of the occupation of his hometown in the aftermath, the unjust executions of his countryman—and Sybil had listened and asked questions. The anger lingered, particularly when his mother had written him the news that his cousin Jimmy had been shot. Sybil may not have understood his fury, but she listened and soothed.

"Who was it?"

Sybil met his gaze. "Vivian Macdonald. I've had the news from his sister Georgiana, who—"

"Who you made your debut with."

Sybil nodded, her lips quivering. She took a slow breath.

"In the Somme. It was a shell. He was—he was so kind. He was a barrister. He had a brilliant career ahead of him." Her voice cracked. Branson shyly took one of her hands, which was in the process of twisting her skirt, and squeezed gently.

"Oh, God, Tom. Sometimes it feels as if all the men I've ever danced with are dead." She sent a glare worthy of the Dowager Countess toward the newspaper on the ground. "This war is an evil. I'm glad you've not gone." And she gripped his hand and squeezed back. Though they had touched hands before, every time she intertwined her fingers with his, it sent a jolt through his arm.

"I think I should do something," Sybil continued, with some of her old determination. "Instead of sitting about, knitting and visiting the hospital and playing referee between Mary and Edith."

"As long as you don't plan to march to the Somme yourself, my lady."

"I really don't see why women _shouldn'_t fight." Branson couldn't help but grin at that. "There would certainly be less war if women ran the government."

"I suspect that to be true. So you want to contribute. What will you do?"

Sybil sunk into silence for a few minutes. Tom rose to ease his knees, though he kept his fingers interlaced with hers. But he made sure to look about him, to be sure that there were no prying eyes. The war may have relaxed protocol somewhat, but it would still be a scandal if they were found like this and he would, in all likelihood, be reprimanded, if not outright sacked.

Sybil smiled slowly. "What do you think of this? I shall ask cousin Isobel to teach me nursing. I can nurse in the village hospital."

He pretended to think about this. "So you can."

She sobered. "Perhaps I can save some poor chap's life. Some lad who danced with a girl before the war." She stood. "Do you think I would make a good nurse?"

"Yes, my lady." She would, actually. She was intelligent and thoughtful, learned quickly, and was compassionate.

Sybil smiled and did something she'd never done before. She tiptoed up and kissed him on the cheek before leaving to go back to the house. Branson stood there for a long time afterwards, feeling the sear in his cheek where her lips had pressed. He closed his eyes. If Lady Sybil became a nurse, then things would most certainly change.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: **Thanks to everyone who read the first part. I decided to expand this a little. Consider this pre-season 2, episode 1.

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously.

**Chapter Two**

A few days later, Sybil saw her chance to ask Isobel about nursing. Mama, as a patron of the Downton Cottage Hospital, went down to visit, to see for herself what the little place needed to adequately treat the soldiers who stayed there.

"Oh, may I go with you, Mama?" Sybil asked one night at dinner when the visit was mentioned.

"There may be upsetting things there," Mama replied. "Those men have been through terrible events, darling. It may not be best for you to come." Mama looked at Mary and Edith. "Why don't you accompany me, Mary, Edith?"

Why them and not me, Sybil thought.

"I'm going down to Aunt Rosamund that day, remember?" Mary replied.

"Oh, yes," Mama said. "Edith?"

"Why not?" Edith replied, with a lack of enthusiasm in her voice.

Still, Sybil didn't let Mama's refusal discourage her. She thought around it instead. Perhaps if she walked to the hospital while Mama and Edith were driven down? Then she would be there already and how could Mama refuse to let Sybil see the hospital? Or perhaps calling on Isobel and convincing her would be better?

The morning of Mama's hospital visit, Sybil, as usual, stole Papa's _Times _and took it down to the garage to read. She wasn't sure when the garage had become her reading room, but then it seemed safer. Anytime she was seen reading the paper inside the house, Mama insisted she put it down-"it's so gloomy, Sybil dear"-and Papa would take back his newspaper.

Sybil was so engrossed in the article she was reading and with pondering which plan to see the hospital would work better, that she didn't hear the car sputter to a stop near her.

"Oh, good morning!"

Sybil looked up and saw Branson exit the car, tugging out of his driving gloves.

"Good morning, Branson," Sybil said. "Did Mary get off all right?"

"Yes, she got on just fine," Branson said. "She said it was an extended visit. She wasn't sure when she'd be back."

Sybil put down the newspaper. "I suppose she's gone to forget Matthew."

Branson took off his hat. "But who could?" He replied. "He's the heir."

Sybil decided to change the topic. As much as she and Branson were...friends...she didn't think it was quite proper to speak of Matthew and Mary. Matthew was in France, fighting in the Somme. Mary was a glum ghost most of the time, seemingly bored by Downton and utterly miserable. Sybil didn't know what had happened between them-only that Mary had vacillated in her decision and Matthew had taken that to mean Mary didn't love him.

"I don't think there is really much in the way of social events down in London right now, but I could be wrong," Sybil said. "Mama and Edith are going to tour the hospital this afternoon." Branson nodded. "I want to go as well, but Mama said that it would be 'upsetting' for me."

# # #

Even as she said that her Mama thought it would be upsetting for her to see the hospital, Tom recognized the sparkle in Lady Sybil's blue eyes. It was the same glint that he saw in the moments before the Count two years ago. He ought not to trust that light coming into her eyes, but he felt drawn to it despite himself.

So he asked, "What's your plan, Sybil?"

Sybil leaned forward with a fetching smile. "Well, I've two plans. I'm not sure which one will be better. I thought that I could walk down to the village and meet them at the hospital. If I'm already there, I don't think Mama will want to tell me off in front of Dr. Clarkson."

All right. Mischievous, but not quite as plotting or dangerous as the Count.

"Or maybe I'll go down soon to Isobel's and see if she can convince Mama. But I'm afraid that'll depend on Isobel being home and whether or not she feels comfortable contravening Mama's word."

Tom knew that Isobel Crawley had not been up to Downton Abbey as much since her son marched off to the Western Front. She was busy using her nursing skills in the Cottage Hospital.

"Sounds to me like plan one might work best," Tom said, inwardly cursing for getting involved. He really shouldn't encourage her, but he agreed with her political convictions and her idealism. She wanted to contribute to the world instead of ordering it. What a beautiful thing that was.

Sybil smiled and nodded. "Very well. Thank you, Branson." She stood, leaving the _Times_ on the bench for him to read at his leisure. He preferred other newspapers, but the _Times_ was the paper of record. He wanted to read how history would note down the Battle of the Somme.

Sybil walked away. "I will see you in the village." She headed toward the house, this time, with no kiss on the cheek for him.

Ah, lad, don't be silly. She only kissed you 'cause she was overwrought.

Tom undid the buttons on his heavy green chauffeur's coat and went around the corner of the garage for a bucket and the water pump. He wanted the car spotless for Sybil's performance later. He had a feeling that Lady Grantham might instruct him to drive Lady Sybil home before she even set foot into the hospital's courtyard.

# # #

Sneaking out of a house like Downton Abbey was both complicated and easy.

Complicated, because there were servants everywhere. Eyes everywhere.

Easy because she simply told Carson, "I'm taking a walk down to the village, Carson. I need more thread and wool for the socks I'm knitting for our boys." Carson nodded and let her go without a word. Knitting socks and scarves for the men was, of course, a noble thing for a daughter of the house to do.

Sybil walked down the drive quickly. Carson would not think a daughter of the house becoming a nurse was noble. But Matthew joining up to go to the war-oh, that was the height of nobility. Even Carson, who always took Mary's side, seemed favorable to Matthew for joining up almost as soon as war was declared. Since then, many of Downton's gardeners had gone to war, along with the gamekeepers, some of the farmers and their laborers, and a few of the stablehands.

Conscription had started in January and everyday, Sybil heard of men in the village and of her parents or sisters' acquaintances who had been called up. Sybil had also read about women volunteering to be VADs-Voluntary Aid Detachment nurses-and of women working on farms in the Land Army. She admired these women greatly, women who were truly doing their bit, supporting and caring for the men and the land. They were capable and energetic and intelligent.

Sybil wanted to be thought of that way.

The village center was only a quarter mile away from the estate's gates. It was rather quiet today. Almost nobody was walking about.

Sybil passed Crawley House. Of course she couldn't tell by simply looking at the front of the house, but she was sure Cousin Isobel was at the hospital. Still though, having Isobel on her side and telling her about her interest in at least helping at the hospital wouldn't go amiss. Sybil looked up the road behind her, wondering if Mama and Edith were on their way yet. Perhaps Branson, knowing of her plan, would drive slowly.

Not bloody likely. He liked to go at a good clip.

# # #

Tom brought the car around to the front of the house and waited. William stood by the open front door. Tom got out and prepared to open the back door for Lady Grantham and Lady Edith. He wondered if Sybil was already at the hospital.

"No, I don't expect we'll stay long," Lady Grantham's voice floated out of the door. A moment later, she appeared, wearing a long blue coat and a blue hat. "But I'm sure the place needs supplies and we ought to fundraise somehow."

Lady Edith followed her mother. "Did you know that Sir Anthony Strallen has gone to the front? Because he speaks German and French?"

"Oh?" Lady Grantham replied. Tom opened the door and helped her ladyship up and in. He did the same for Lady Edith, shut the door, and took his place in the driver's seat.

"You know, Edith dear, perhaps you ought to go to London, too," Lady Grantham said. "Or Brighton. Well, maybe not Brighton."

Tom double de-clutched and the car pulled away from the house.

"Why?" Lady Edith said.

"I'm sorry Sir Anthony didn't propose, but I don't like you moping around the house so," Lady Grantham said. "Maybe London will give you a spring in your step again."

"With Mary about, I doubt it, Mama."

They were out of Downton's gates when Lady Grantham spoke again.

"When we think of a way to raise money for the hospital, do help me organize it."

Lady Edith just sighed and said, "I miss driving with Sir Anthony."

# # #

Cousin Isobel had not been home, as Sybil thought, so she hurried off to the hospital. She loitered by the entrance for several minutes until finally deciding to simply step in and see if she could find her. Even a short, five minute explanation to Cousin Isobel might be enough to convince her to let her see the place, at least.

Sybil saw a young nurse, dressed in a plain dress with a large white apron. The nurse's hair was simple in an up-do and she wore a hat. She looked so _smart_ in her uniform. Golly! How would she, Sybil Crawley, become one of those creatures? Surely the VADs had to know all kinds of practical skills and medical knowledge. Sybil wondered if she could even grasp those concepts. The only thing she learned from her governesses were French, conversation, and dancing.

Her declaration a few days ago to Branson of wanting to be a nurse seemed so childish now.

Another nurse walked by and said, "Hello."

"Hello," Sybil replied. "Do you know if Mrs. Crawley's about?"

"Oh, yes," the nurse said. "Shall I fetch her for you?"

"That'd be lovely. Tell her Cousin Sybil is here."

The nurse nodded and went inside.

"Sybil! What brings you here, my dear?" Cousin Isobel said. She, too, was dressed in simple clothing-a blouse and skirt, sturdy shoes, and an apron.

"Mama and Edith are on their way to tour the hospital," Sybil said. "But I wanted to come, too, and Mama thinks it'll be too shocking."

Cousin Isobel smiled. "She is correct, my darling. The injuries these men have are not easy."

"I understand. But I..." Sybil gathered breath. "I cannot sit still and simply knit socks any longer, Cousin Isobel. I want to _do_ something. I-" She couldn't get the words "I want to be a nurse" out. Seeing real nurses here, it seemed a tad out of her reach.

Isobel touched her shoulder. "I see. Well, in that case, I think a tour of the hospital will be a good start. You know, we like to have volunteers here. To read to the men or write letters for them, to help the nurses."

That was definitely within her grasp as she was now. Yes. Sybil liked the idea. Surely by observing the nurses more closely, she could figure out a way to join their ranks, if the war, God forbid, lasted long enough.

"I'd like that," Sybil finally said. "Do help me convince Mama."

"Help convince Mama of what?"An American voice drawled.

Sybil turned around and saw her mother with her eyes narrowed. Behind her stood Edith.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: **Thanks to everyone who read the first part. I decided to expand this a little. Consider this pre-season 2, episode 1.

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously.

**Chapter Three**

Sybil put on her nicest smile, folded her hands together in front of her, and stood up straighter.

"Hello, Mama. Shall we take the tour now?"

Mama tilted her head slightly and pursed her lips together.

"Cousin Isobel is all ready for us. Let's not keep her waiting. She seems quite busy," Sybil went on. She turned back to Isobel. "Where shall we begin?"

Isobel hesitated for the briefest second before gesturing to the courtyard. "Why don't we start here? We only have a little bit of a courtyard, but it's enough for the men to take a turn in the fresh air. We also use it for exercise, which is important to get muscles working again, especially if a man has been laid up for a long time." Cousin Isobel stepped away from the hospital entrance further into the courtyard, which was little more than a few yards of grass surrounded by a brick wall. Sybil followed.

"Here, let us go inside this way," Isobel said, leading to a back door.

"Will we be seeing anything particularly disturbing?" Mama asked. "I know the injuries are devastating and I don't think Sybil is equal to seeing them."

"Mama," Sybil said. "We cannot pretend that men haven't been grievously wounded. At least here, they're being treated back to health. I would like to see the hospital."

Mama frowned. "I'd rather you didn't, Sybil."

"Oh, Mama," Edith said. "You know she'll only dig in her heels more if you say no. Like when she went canvassing, remember?" Sybil didn't appreciate the sardonic slant of the word "canvassing," but she knew that she ought to just let Edith try to defend her.

"If there is anything particularly gruesome, Isobel, do warn us," Mama said.

"Of course," Cousin Isobel replied, leading the way in. "This is our Day Room. We have two in the hospital, but we had to give one up because we needed tbeds." Sybil, Edith, and Mama stepped in behind their relative. Three men sat in comfy old chairs in the square room. One of them read a newspaper, his left arm in a sling. "This is where the more mobile men relax. Sometimes we do easy exercises here."

Mama's eyes seemed to run along the plain walls and furniture of the Day Room. "If this is the only Day Room, where else do the soldiers congregate?"

"I'm afraid this is it," Isobel replied. She walked to the door and led them into a corridor. "This is one of our wards now. You may recognize it as the hospital's old room for difficult births and maternity matters. We had to convert it over when the military started sending us men wounded in the Somme."

# # #

Parked outside the cottage hospital, Tom Branson took off his hat and unfolded his copy of the _Yorkshire Observer_. The words floated before his eyes, but they did not register enough to make sense as sentences. His ears were pricked in the direction of the hospital. He waited for footsteps and maybe the opening and closing of the car door. When he drove her on her own, Sybil had taken to opening and closing the car door herself. Tom waited for the sound of Sybil Crawley's voice, complaining about her mother being far too overprotective of her.

But nothing. All Tom heard was the rustle of the newspaper in his hands and the chirping of an insistent bird in a nearby tree.

Sybil. She was different from her sisters: less aloof, less impressed by titles and wealth. What was it she'd called that man, the one that was son to Lady Mary's godfather? Ah, yes. A toad. Tom smiled.

Sybil was one to speak her mind, though in a respectful way. She wanted to be useful. She was a suffragette. She hadn't been terribly shocked when he held her hand at that garden party on the day war was declared. What had he been thinking? Just because he found her interesting-far more interesting than he expected to find any overbred English aristocrat's daughter-and pretty and fun...

Tom blew a long breath out.

Idiot, he thought. When did you grow sweet on her? She's your employer's daughter.

But she's your friend, his mind argued back.

Yes, but that will end once she finds someone to her liking enough to marry. Heck, she might find her future husband by nursing him back to health, if she really becomes a nurse.

Tom's heart dropped at the thought and he couldn't stop it.

# # #

The officers recovering at Downton Cottage Hospital were separated by severity of injury. Iron beds with thin mattresses lined each ward and every bed had a man in it. There was no privacy for them.

One room, for it could hardly be called a ward, was reserved for burn victims. Here, Isobel warned them beforehand and said that they would only peek in; burns and mustard gas injuries were a delicate, grave business. Mama purposely pushed to the front, closer to Isobel, to both see the damage and block her daughters' views. Sybil rolled her eyes.

They walked away from the room down the corridor. Mama was shaking her head.

"How terrible. What can be done for them?"

"We're trying to prevent infection from setting in," Isobel said. "The worst burn cases are in London, of course. They'd be too severe to move all the way to Yorkshire." She gestured to her left. "That's where we keep medicines and supplies."

"You must run through the supplies quickly," Mama said.

"Very much so."

"We'd like to do a fundraiser for the hospital," Mama went on. "I'm not quite sure what kind will best suit."

"Anything will do," Isobel said. Sybil and Edith followed Mama and Isobel as they walked upstairs. On the second story, Sybil saw a young woman, not in a nurse's uniform, sitting by a man lying down in bed. "What we need are funds and volunteers." Isobel turned to Sybil and then Edith. "Just a few hours a week."

"We can talk about that later," Mama said.

And they most certainly did, in the car on the way home.

# # #

The roar of the engine was loud and the crunch of the wheels on the dirt and gravel roads of Downton Village was also noisy, but Tom could still hear everything that was said in the backseat. Usually, he didn't particularly care what the Crawleys had to say back there among themselves. Sybil was the only one who talked to him while they drove around.

Today, his reaction was a cross between disbelief and amusement.

Lady Grantham started in as soon as he pulled away from the hospital.

"I cannot believe you would disobey my wishes, Sybil," she said. "And to enlist Isobel's help in this scheme, when she has so many other important things to worry about!"

"I wanted to see for myself," Sybil said.

"Why? All of it is sad and disturbing. War is not a game, Sybil. These soldiers are not dolls that you've wrapped a bandage around."

That was unbelievable, that Lady Grantham could think Sybil thought of the war or the soldiers that way. Had she been paying attention to her youngest at all? Had she not seen how Sybil kept up with the war news? Or how she mourned each man she knew who was killed?

"I know it's not a game, Mama," Sybil replied. "I read the newspapers. Five men I've grown up with are dead now and so many of them are in harm's way, Matthew included. We all must do our bit and I want to do mine at the hospital."

"What? What would you do at the hospital?"

"Volunteer. Read to the men or write letters for them. Whatever was needed. They need hands and people with time and I have both. I'm doing it."

"I really think you contributing through your charities and through any and all fundraisers will be a much better use of your time, Sybil."

"But why?" Lady Edith chimed in. "Why are those things a better use of our time? I don't know about Sybil, but the last charity meeting I went to was useless."

"Edith dear, I don't know how helpful you're being." Tom smiled at that. "I just can't think it appropriate for you to volunteer among a bunch of soldiers."

"But Cousin Isobel will be there!" Sybil exclaimed.

The Crawley women went silent as Tom drove out of the village and onto the farmland of the estate. The house peered at them over hills and through copses of trees. When he pulled up in front of the house, hopped out, and opened the door, Sybil was the first one out of the car and she was frowning deeply. Lady Edith looked puzzled, which was an improvement over her more gloomy moods.

Lady Grantham just looked tired.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note: **Thanks everyone! Here is Chapter Four.

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously.

**Chapter Four**

With Mary in London, Sybil and Edith readied for dinner together in Edith's room. As Anna braided and coiled Sybil's long, heavy hair, Edith perched on her bed, a magazine open before her.

"I can't believe you wanted to see the hospital that badly," Edith remarked.

"Of course I wanted to see it," Sybil said. "I want to volunteer there."

"But why?"

How could she explain it to Edith? How could she explain her need to be involved somehow, to explain how for her, doing something was the way to keep her sanity?

"Don't you feel like we should pitch in? I feel as if all we've done since the war began was to pretend life wouldn't change or knit or avoid talking about Matthew in front of Mary."

Edith seemed to consider the idea for a moment, frowning and blinking her eyes rapidly. Then she said, "I suppose so. All the men are gone to war; we must do something otherwise."

"Yes!" Sybil exclaimed. "Anna and the other maids have extra work now, haven't you, Anna?"

"Some, yes, my lady," Anna replied. She stepped away. "I think that's done. Is there anything else?"

Edith and Sybil said goodbye to Anna, who left the room to go down. Edith reached for her gloves and rolled them on as the sisters stood, preparing to go down themselves.

"That magazine there," Edith said. "_The Sketch_. There's an article about young women like us working for the Red Cross or becoming nurses or taking up the Land Army. Interesting things."

They left Edith's room and walked down the corridor to the stairs.

"Wouldn't you like to try something new?" Sybil asked. "Meet new people, gain some new skills..."

"This is all rather silly, but today, as we drove home, I couldn't help but watch how Branson drives," Edith said in a low, confiding tone.

Sybil had also watched Branson as he drove; the breadth of his shoulders in his green coat, his steady hands on the steering wheel, his hat sitting atop his perfect hair...

Before Sybil could imagine Edith harboring feelings for their chauffeur, Edith said, "He drives so fluidly and of course, he must know how the car works and how to manage it. Can you imagine knowing all of that? I think I'd like to drive."

Sybil widened her eyes. They walked across the Great Hall to the drawing room.

"Driving," Sybil breathed. "I must say, Edith, I'm not quite that brave."

Edith wasted no time in her desire to learn how to drive. As they sat around the dining room table that night, with Carson and William serving, Edith piped up and said, "I'd like to learn how to drive."

Sybil watched Papa's face. His eyes nearly bugged out. He glanced toward Mama and then to Edith.

"Oh, really?" Papa said. "Why? We have a chauffeur for that and quite a good one at that."

"Yes, of course," Edith said. "But with conscription in now, what if Branson gets called up?" At that, Sybil's heart beat faster. She hadn't thought about Branson being called up, but of course, he very well could be. Being Irish didn't matter, for he'd lived here for years now.

Edith went on, "Sybil thinks that we must take on new tasks and roles because of the war and I agree with her. I don't think I'd make much of a volunteer in the hospital, but I'd like to drive. Perhaps I can contribute to the war effort with that somehow."

Papa looked to be in thought for a long time. Then he said, "Very well. I'll ask Branson to teach you." Then he turned to Sybil. "You want to volunteer?"

Sybil swallowed her food and nodded. "Cousin Isobel said that volunteers were very helpful with writing letters or reading to the men, to help settle new arrivals down and such."

"I don't think it's appropriate, Robert," Mama said. "Those men are injured and wounded. I don't think Sybil needs to be exposed to such a male environment."

"But they're all officers," Papa said. "They know how to behave well and they are injured and wounded. They won't get up to anything rough in those conditions, I assure you."

Sybil contained a little glimmer of hope in her gut.

"But I really do think we ought to do a fundraiser for the hospital," Mama said. "What kind do you think would be appropriate?"

# # #

The next morning, as Tom sat in the servants' hall with his morning toast and tea, Mr. Carson looked to him and said, "His Lordship would like to speak to you after breakfast, Mr. Branson."

Tom nodded, but his mind started whirring. Why? Was he to be sacked? Had His Lordship learned about Lady Sybil using the garage as a reading room?

He made sure his hair was as plastered down and perfect as ever, then he stiffened his back and made his way upstairs into the hall. He almost never came into the house, so he felt small and timid as he crossed the great open opulent space to the library.

The library was Tom's favorite room in the house. So many volumes, so many stories. If he was a rich man, the only thing Tom coveted was a library like this one.

Lord Grantham sat wearing his army uniform at his desk further into the room, his dog lying on the floor nearby.

"My lord?" Tom said. "Mr. Carson said you asked for me?"

Lord Grantham turned and then stood. "I did, indeed. Come in, Branson."

Tom took another few steps, hat in his hands.

"It seems that Lady Edith wants to learn how to drive," Lord Grantham said. "I know, I was surprised as well. She's never hinted at a mechanical inclination before. But she wants to learn. Would you mind teaching her?"

It wasn't the request Tom had expected. And of course, the reasonable request was really an order. Later, he could analyze why Lady Edith wanted to drive. Right now, Tom simply nodded and said, "Of course, my lord."

Behind him, the library door opened.

# # #

Sybil wasn't sure whether Papa supported her on volunteering down at the hospital, so she decided to make sure. Leaving Mama in her boudoir, where they had been talking about whether a concert or a bake sale or a special dinner would be best for a fundraiser, Sybil went to the library, where Papa always was at this hour.

She opened the door and saw two men looking back at her. One of them was Branson.

The morning light pouring into the room gilded his hair to blond.

Papa stood near the table by the doors.

"Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting..." Sybil said. "Shall I come back later?" 

"Oh, there's no need," Papa said. "I was just asking whether Branson minded teaching Edith how to drive. Do you know why she wants to learn all of a sudden?" 

"No," Sybil said. "But I think it's lovely that she wants to learn a new skill."

"Would you like to learn with her?" Papa asked. "You may, if you like."

Papa was being awfully easy today. Certainly the right time to talking about her desire to help out at the hospital then. Good.

"To be honest, I'm afraid I'd get all the gears and shifts mixed up," Sybil said. "Nothing to do with the teacher, you understand. I don't think I'd be a very good driver."

Branson smiled at her.

"Thank you, Branson. I'll have Sybil tell Edith the good news."

Branson inclined his head and left the library, closing the door behind him.

"Papa," Sybil said, standing almost where Branson had stood just seconds ago. "I really would like to volunteer at the hospital."

"Hmm."

What did that mean?

"If Isobel says it's all right and there is truly a use for you down there, then yes, of course you may. You must. It's boys your age fighting in France, Sybil darling."

She certainly knew that already. Boys her age dying by the thousands.

And girls her age realizing that this was a different world than the one they had been raised for.


	5. Chapter 5

**Note: **Thanks everyone! Here is Chapter Five. Edith and Sybil take on new things in this chapter!

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously.

**Chapter Five**

Breakfast this morning felt a little different.

Mama was upstairs, eating off a tray in bed. Papa sat in the dining room, frowning over the newspaper. Carson stood near the sideboard, underneath the enormous Van Dyke of Charles I.

Sybil did not have a letter today, thank goodness. Letters these days only meant bad news. Still, as she ate, she itched to steal Papa's newspaper and take it down to the garage. Then she'd walk into the village and visit Isobel at the hospital to offer to her meager services.

She contained her excitement. Perhaps Cousin Isobel would start her on something today. How exciting!

Across the table, Edith picked at her food, reading a letter. She glanced away from the paper once finished.

"Who is it from?" Sybil asked, hoping it wasn't sad news.

"Annabelle MacClare," Edith replied, referring to one of their cousins.

"How is Annabelle?"

"She writes that she's well," Edith said. "James is in France, of course, so they're worried over him. Apparently, Annabelle's sweetheart, Sir Stephen Morley, is in the Navy."

"Goodness!" Sybil said, thinking. "Annabelle's younger than me!"

"Sir Stephen was at Jutland," Edith said. "Annabelle is doing work in Edinburgh for the Red Cross." Then Edith smiled. "I'm having my first driving lesson today."

"I told Branson not to let you leave the estate today," Papa said from behind his newspaper.

"Well, that's not a restriction, Papa," Edith replied. "I don't want to leave the estate for a while yet. I want to learn properly, without running into trees or people."

"Quite," Papa replied.

When he left, Sybil filched the paper as always and ran down to the garage. Branson was already up and dressed in his uniform, polishing the hood of the car.

"I hear that today is Edith's first lesson," Sybil said.

"Yes," Branson replied. "She asked to start this morning, for an hour." He cocked his head. "Are you sure you don't want to learn?"

Sybil shook her head. "No, thank you. Well! This is interesting news!"

"What?" Branson asked.

"A woman named Margaret Sanger was arrested in New York City a few days ago for opening a...birth control clinic," Sybil said. Then she stopped. Good God! She couldn't talk about this sort of thing with a man.

"Margaret Sanger. You know, she was over here in '14," Branson said.

"Was she?" Sybil continued reading the article. "What are her ideas?"

"To help women, especially poor women, space out pregnancies," Branson said. "Otherwise, all those pregnancies drain..."

"Good morning, Branson," Edith said, walking toward them. "Sybil. Oh, is this where you always squirrel away the newspaper?" Edith was giving them a funny sort of look, so Sybil stood from her customary place on the bench. She wanted to continue discussing Mrs. Sanger and her ideas, as risque as they seemed. To discuss such things with one's chauffeur!

But who else was she going to speak of these ideas to? Certainly not Mama or Edith; they'd be appalled! If Gwen were still here, they could maybe talk of such things, if Gwen didn't find them too shocking. And Mary would either tell her the truth of what she knew or shut her away in her room forever.

"Not always," Sybil said. "I came to wish you the best luck with your first driving lesson. And to wish Branson luck also."

Edith's mouth quirked to the side.

"Goodness me, Sybil, thank you."

# # #

Tom watched Sybil leave the garage before turning to look to Lady Edith, who was staring at the car with huge eyes.

"Uh, I thought I'd start with the parts of the car, my lady, and then we'll get in and I'll show you how to start her up," Branson said, hesitating.

"Whatever you feel best, Branson," Lady Edith said.

So Tom pointed out the basics: wheels, hood, windshield, exhaust pipe. Engine, which he showed Lady Edith, who asked questions about how bits of it worked.

Then he showed her the clutch inside and the steering wheel. They sat in the front of the car, Lady Edith in the driver's seat and him beside her.

He had her start the car. It took her two times to do it. Then he showed her how to double de-clutch.

Then finally, Branson said, "Let's drive her a few feet."

Lady Edith exhaled very slowly and put her hands on the steering wheel. Branson held onto his closed door.

# # #

Sybil changed her clothes and then walked to the village. What sorts of things would Branson be showing Edith? Would Edith really learn how to drive? She tried to imagine her sister behind the wheel of the Renault. All Sybil could conjure were the width of Branson's shoulders in his uniform.

There were vans parked outside the hospital. Sybil peeked and saw a man being carried in on a stretcher. Like last time, Sybil walked to the entrance, entered, and asked for Cousin Isobel, who bustled out of some corner of the hospital wearing a neat blue frock with an apron.

"Sybil, dear," Isobel said with her wide smile. "What brings you here?"

"I want to be a volunteer," Sybil said, drawing herself straight. "I've already talked to Mama and Papa and they've agreed to let me volunteer."

"Have they? Truly?"

Sybil felt her cheeks warm at the "truly?" In the past, she knew, she'd schemed, perhaps fibbed about her parents' exact permission to Isobel, to Matthew, to her friends and sisters, and to Branson especially. She let her passions gallop away sometimes. And besides, her parents were often restrictive when they needn't be.

Mama, however, had supported her canvassing for suffrage in the past. Perhaps because it was within a group?

"They have," Sybil said. "And Mama is thinking up different fundraising ideas."

"Yes, I know," Isobel said. "We're to discuss that. I'm coming up for dinner tonight."

Sybil nodded and folded her hands together.

"You know, since you're here," Isobel said. "We get bushels of mail for the boys. It's never as organized as it ought to be and it's easier to distribute if it is organized."

"Yes."

"I wonder if you'd mind sorting them, then handing them out to the men?" Isobel was already turning to one of the corridors. Sybil followed. "Letters are so very important to them all."

"I can imagine." Sybil moved to the side to let a nurse pass. "To have a little piece of home."

"Indeed," Isobel said, turning right. "I...do you know if your Papa has had any letters from Matthew?"

"I'm not sure," Sybil replied. "He wrote to Papa a month ago to say he was all right. He must write to you more frequently."

"Every week," Isobel said. "You know Matthew, incredibly conscientious."

They reached one of the smaller rooms in the hospital, right beside the locked drug room, the nurses' room, and Doctor, no, Major Clarkson's office. Isobel unlocked the room and they walked in. The room was but a closet and windowless. In one corner sat cleaning supplies. In another sat three fat burlap sacks of mail.

"Here," Isobel said, opening one of the bags. "Do this one. It's from three days ago."

Sybil knelt by her relative and began pulling out the envelopes. "How shall I sort them? Simply by surname?"

"Yes. Then we'll figure out a way to get them where they need to be," Isobel said. She touched Sybil's shoulder. "You're a dear. I'll be back to see how you are."


	6. Chapter 6

**Note: **Thanks everyone! Here is Chapter Six. Edith and Sybil take on new things in this chapter! Also, this is a Sybil-centric chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously.

**Chapter Six**

The car lurched forward a few feet at a zooming speed. Tom held onto the shut car door even tighter and resisted the urge to shut his eyes against possible impact.

"That was fine," he said to Lady Edith. "Now try to go forward again, keep the car straight, but more gently this time, my lady."

Lady Edith nodded and then tried again. Still lurching forward, the occupants of the car slid toward the windshield when Lady Edith stopped the car this time. Still, it was smoother than the first time.

"Next time, we'll try to take the car a little further on," Branson said.

Lady Edith folded her hands in her lap. "How long did it take you to learn, Branson?"

"A few months, my lady, and then a few months more to learn all about the car."

Lady Edith exhaled. "Very well then. It's a time for challenges, isn't it?"

# # #

Sybil carefully stepped over the small piles of envelopes on the floor of the storage room, to put another envelope on top of a pile. She had three dozen small piles on the floor in alphabetical order. She had finished the first sack of mail and moved on to the next, finding the different handwriting on each envelope a moving testament to the many families affected by the war. Letters from Durham next to letters from Lincoln, envelopes from small villages all over Yorkshire, a package from Manchester; all of these families worrying over their sons and brothers.

It made Sybil think about Matthew, in France. He'd been in the war for two years now. She missed him. She ought to write to him, really. She thought he'd be pleased by her ideas to volunteer at the hospital.

"Oh, goodness!"

Sybil looked up and saw Cousin Isobel standing in the doorway.

"I've done two bags," Sybil said. "They're in alphabetical order by last name. Several of them seem to have more than one letter."

Isobel nodded. "Very good! Well, let's see, how shall we distribute them?"

For the next hour, Isobel rattled off in which ward each man was. Sybil found the name and the corresponding pile and they gathered up the mail for each room into a box.

Then Sybil went from man to man and handed them their mail. The men seemed most thankful, many of them tearing into their letters right away. Isobel delivered the mail into the burn unit. When everything was finished, Sybil looked to Isobel and asked if she should come back tomorrow.

Isobel smiled. "Do, Sybil. For a few hours in the afternoon. There is always plenty to be done."

Sybil's heart beat quickly, almost in a flutter. As she walked home, instead of walking into the imposing front doors of the house, she went around the back toward the lane leading down to the garage. Luckily, the car was parked outside and two long legs stuck out from underneath the car.

Sybil stopped and said quietly, not wanting to startle him, "Branson."

"Sybil?" came his muffled voice.

"Yes," Sybil replied. "Did Edith bang up the car that badly?"

Branson slid out, his hands covered his motor oil, holding what Sybil thought was a wrench. He wore brown coveralls over his uniform. He smiled.

"Oh, no. Lady Edith's first lesson went the way of most first driving lessons," he said. "She was a little rough, but she wasn't afraid and she was game to try to drive the car a few more feet forward."

Sybil smiled. Then she clasped her hands. "Guess what?"

Branson blinked and asked, "What?"

"I went for my first volunteer afternoon at the hospital."

"How was it? What did you do?" Branson asked, leaning back against the car.

"Cousin Isobel asked me to go through these large burlap sacks of mail. No one had had time to sort them and of course, letters are so very important to the soldiers," Sybil said. "So I sorted them and then we distributed them. You should've seen the men! They were so pleased!"

"I'm glad."

"Yes. I'm going back tomorrow afternoon." Sybil beamed. "You couldn't understand, but I...I feel useful. Even a little bit. I cannot sit about the house all day."

"I know you can't," he said and the way he said it told Sybil that Tom Branson knew her very well indeed.

After, Sybil returned to the house by the front door. She went up to her room, where Anna met her to take her outerwear.

"Also, Her Ladyship is wanting to discuss something with you, my lady," Anna said. "She's taking tea in the library."

Sybil went down to find Mama and Edith sipping tea. Upon seeing her enter, Mama said, "Sybil, I think I've an idea for a fundraiser!"

Sybil sat beside her sister. "Isobel said she's coming to dinner to discuss that exact thing with you."

"Yes, and I'm glad I have a concrete suggestion now," Mama said. "I called on Lady Ballister this afternoon and she told me of a small orchestra she saw in York a few weeks ago. They're quite available for functions, so I've decided to write to them to see if they'd be interested in giving a concert."

"Are they famous?" Sybil asked.

"They're well known, from York," Mama said. "And we can do a raffle as well, perhaps even a bidding for a special dinner." Mama tilted her head. "Of course, it'll take a few weeks to organize the entire thing. But with the weather growing cooler, an indoor fundraiser is necessary."

"It seems a good idea," Sybil said. She turned to Edith. "How was driving?"

"I didn't hit anything," Edith said. "I only drove a few feet, but oh, Sybil, it was absolutely thrilling! To just move the slightest and have this massive machine move!" She shook her head. "Such power!"

Power. Yes, cars were powerful and to drive one was a powerful act, especially for a woman. Women drove, but not often in their circles. Of course they wouldn't. Women in their circles had chauffeurs. Sybil had no desire at present to learn how to drive. None whatsoever. But yes, she wanted power of her own sort. Power to make her own decisions. Power to change another person's life.

It was naive, perhaps. She was expected to find a husband and marry, to settle down, run a household, and have children. She could only marry a certain type of man. Only move in certain circles, only have certain opinions, only _do_ certain things.

No, Sybil promised herself, somehow, she would find a way to be herself entirely, whatever being true to herself entailed. And in that, there would be power.


	7. Chapter 7

**Note: **Thanks everyone! Here is Chapter Seven. I mention Princess Alexandra, the Duchess of Fife, and Margaret Sanger in this chapter. Both were real women of the time period. Princess Alexandra was a member of the Royal Family and during World War One, she served as a nurse at St. Mary's Hospital in London.

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously.

**Chapter Seven**

Tom put the car in park in the driveway of Crawley House before hopping out, ready to open the door. A few moments later, the front door of the home opened and Isobel Crawley emerged. She wore a long dark blue evening gown with a coat. Molesley helped her to the car.

"Good evening, Branson," Mrs. Crawley said with her wide and friendly smile.

"Evening, Mrs. Crawley," Branson replied, opening the car door for her. He helped her in, started the vehicle, and then drove down the road. "I'm to pick up the Dowager Countess, too, Mrs. Crawley."

"Very good," Mrs. Crawley said from the back of the car. "I heard that Lady Edith is learning how to drive."

"Yes," Branson answered. "We started this morning."

"It's very brave of her to want to learn, I think. But rather unexpected, too. I can see Lady Sybil wanting to learn how to drive, but Lady Edith?"

Branson wasn't sure if he should reply. Lady Sybil didn't want to learn. Which, when he thought about it, was surprising. Sybil loved all things progressive. Maybe if he could shape the conversation as learning to drive for a woman really meaning freedom for the woman, freedom of movement on her own terms, he could bring her around to the idea of at least trying to drive.

He dared not think about why him teaching her seemed to matter to him.

In the end, Branson answered. "Lady Sybil told me she didn't want to learn how to drive."

# # #

Dinner was a fairly typical affair. The place settings were perfect, silver polished, glasses gleaming under the chandelier. Papa came down in white tie and all of the Crawley women, save the absent Mary, dressed in evening gowns.

They did not talk of the war, except for Papa's next scheduled visit to Scarborough in his capacity as the Lord Lieutenant, and of Isobel's work in the hospital.

"And may I say," Isobel said. "Sybil came down to volunteer today and I'm afraid I gave her a rather tedious task to sort some mail for the men that none of us had had time to do and Sybil did a brilliant job. Truly."

"That's nice," Mama said with a proud smile.

"I hope you'll come tomorrow as well," Isobel said.

"Of course!" Sybil exclaimed.

Granny tutted. "Aren't we like a new convert?"

"Granny, I think we ought to contribute in whatever way we can," Sybil said. She took a breath and said, "Well, I want to be a VAD nurse, but I don't think I'm quite ready to become one yet. So volunteering seemed the reasonable thing to do."

"You want to be a nurse?" Mama echoed, mouth rounding. "But why? You've never done anything like it."

"Exactly."

"That might be just the thing, Sybil dear," Isobel said. She turned to Granny. "I suppose you have something to say about this."

Granny sniffed. "No, no. I've already told Edith what I think of her driving. Honestly. When we have a perfectly fine chauffeur."

"Still, though, there aren't many gently-bred girls who become nurses," Mama said.

"Princess Mary promotes the VADs," Edith pointed out. "Princess Arthur of Connaught works as a nurse in London, even."

"Oh, yes, since last year," Sybil recalled. Princess Arthur, known by her husband's title, was really Alexandra, Duchess of Fife in her own right, and the lady had taken on nursing in a real hospital. Yes. If the Duchess of Fife could do real work, then surely, a mere Earl's daughter could do the same.

"Hmm. The Fifes were always odd ducks," Granny said.

# # #

William came down to the servants' hall. Normally, Branson would eat in his own cottage, but with rations in place, it was easier to eat with the others in the hall.

"The ladies are through," William said. "We'll clear in a few minutes."

"Nothing exciting then?" O'Brien asked, picking at a seam in a piece of cloth in front of her.

"Only that Lady Sybil mentioned wanting to become a VAD nurse."

"A VAD!" O'Brien exclaimed. "Good heavens, that'll never happen! The girl's very charming, but she's never worked a day in her life."

"I don't think Her Ladyship would approve," Anna said.

"No, she certainly will not," O'Brien said. "God forbid, a Crawley daughter doing manual labor." Usually, Branson stayed out of the range of O'Brien's sarcastic barbs. Usually.

"Lady Sybil went up to volunteer at the hospital today," he said.

"Volunteer what?" O'Brien said. "How to pour tea? How to chatter? She has no skills whatsoever." O'Brien shook her head. "Honestly, who is that girl going to marry? All the eligible men are gone to France or dead."

Branson felt that bubble of annoyance burst into anger, raging through him. He had a mind to shut O'Brien down with some well-placed remarks said in a snappish tone. But then that would only put him on O'Brien's list and those on her list were made miserable.

So he controlled the feeling.

"Give her some credit," Anna said. "Lady Sybil has a very good heart and she wants to _do_ something."

"She's an odd one," O'Brien said.

Branson bit his bottom lip. Hard.

# # #

Mama's fundraiser idea was accepted with enthusiasm by Isobel once the ladies settled in the drawing room. She liked the idea of the orchestra and wondered if there wasn't a chorus locally that could also be on the program.

"The more they see, the more they'll contribute," Isobel said.

Mama promised to look into the chorus idea, then they discussed the raffle. Granny opined that a tombola would be a better idea. Edith asked what the difference was.

"Well, think of it," Granny said. "With a tombola, they purchase the ticket and already know whether they've won a prize or not. Not everyone coming for the concert will buy a ticket or, we hope, stay for a raffle."

"The prizes must be very good," Isobel mused.

"Well, that's where the girls will come in," Mama said. "Edith and Sybil can go into Ripon and Malton to find prizes. Pretty dishes, a tea set, affordable pieces of costume jewelry, perhaps."

For once, they all agreed.

# # #

As faithful as ever, as soon as Tom walked out of the house after breakfast to get started on his day, Sybil Crawley was reading a newspaper in the garage. It was an overcast day with heavy gray clouds, the kind that threatened rain.

"Good morning," he called.

"Good morning," she said, putting the paper down. "The Americans are about to have an election next month, in just a few weeks."

He nodded. He knew.

Then she changed the subject to something which made Branson simultaneously uncomfortable and professorial.

"Did you see Margaret Sanger speak when she was over here in '14? I hadn't heard anything about her," Sybil said.

"You were busy canvassing and going to by-election counts," he teased.

But Sybil sobered, her face growing very serious. "I don't think I've ever apologized for the discomfort and anxiety I must have put you through the night of the count. I should have listened to you when you said it wasn't a good idea to go. And I really should not have been so bratty about it."

He waved his hand. "It's already forgiven, Sybil. Long forgiven."

"But truly, you were very close to losing your place here. I would have been very sorry to see you go."

Tom's heart pumped a little harder at her statement and he knew color was flooding into his face. But he told himself he was an eejit. She didn't think of him as anything more than a friend, perhaps, for anything beyond that was simply unthinkable to one such as her, no matter her interests and liberal political leanings.

Tom nodded to acknowledge her apology, then said, "I didn't see her speak, but there were interviews and articles about her in various pamphlets and papers. She ties in her ideas to suffrage." He hesitated. "She, um, she wants women to have control of when, they, uh...when a woman and her husband..." He had no idea how much Sybil knew or didn't know about married life. "Of when a husband and wife are intimate and therefore, the conception of children. Mrs. Sanger wants to help women limit the number of children they have."

"Because having so many children damages the mother's health?" Sybil said.

"Yes," Tom said. "I had an aunt who had ten children in fourteen years."

Sybil's eyes widened. "Oh, God!"

"Yes. She's lived through it and eight of the ten are living, but she's not as strong as she ought to be," Tom said. "Poor women don't know these things. Often, they can't afford doctors or hospitals. Mrs. Sanger wants to educate them."

Sybil nodded, looking very deep in thought. "Do you have any of those articles and newspapers on Mrs. Sanger?"

"A few."

"May I read them?" Sybil asked. "I don't mean to be improper, but if a woman cannot control her own body and how many children she has, then how are women to have power in other areas of life? The vote, for instance? Or in being educated as well as men are?"

Tom nodded, then said, "Let me go to my cottage and get what I have for you now." He turned back to her. "Oh, and Sybil? Shall I drive you down to the hospital?"

Sybil stood and smiled. Her smile was like sunshine. "Yes, Branson. Thank you, ever so."


	8. Chapter 8

**Note: **Thanks everyone! Here is Chapter Eight. Maybe a few more chapters for this story.

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously.

**Chapter Eight**

Isobel gave Sybil an apron as soon as she walked in and then took her to one of the wards.

"We're short-staffed today," Isobel said. "And it's almost time to give some of them their medicine."

"Oh! Shall I go around giving them their pills or...?"

"For the ones confined to their beds, yes," Isobel said. "Come, the head nurse this shift is overseeing the pills. I'll introduce her to you."

By the end of her first week as a volunteer, during which Sybil spent eight to ten hours at the hospital on three days and then five hours on another day, she had sorted and distributed the mail, helped distribute pills, organized the linen with the nurses, collected check-in forms for new arrivals, and helped write letters to various army friends, families, and others for the men.

Her feet were quite sore by the end of the fourth day and she almost wept with happiness when she saw Branson, sitting in the car, parked just outside the hospital that afternoon.

She opened the car's back door, which made Branson jump.

"Oh, goodness, I didn't see you come out!" He exclaimed.

Sybil smiled and hopped in. "It's all right. Are you reading something?"

"Just a letter from my Mam."

"I'm so glad you're here," she said with a sigh. "My feet ache."

"Were you standing the whole time?" He asked, getting the car started.

"I was," Sybil said. "Some of the officers' time here is finished and there were discharge papers and transport papers to give them, as well as helping the nurses with collecting the used linens and disinfecting the areas for new arrivals."

"But you love it," Branson said.

"I don't know if I love it," Sybil replied. "But I feel useful and I'm learning and I'm out in the world. And I feel as if those things are important not to me, but to the women's cause, too. If only we all could be useful and learn and be out in the world. Then the power would be ours, don't you think, Branson?"

Branson turned to look at her over his shoulder. He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He nodded. Then he turned back around and started to pull away, into the road.

# # #

Branson dropped Sybil off in front of the house, hopped out, and opened her door. She walked out slowly and winced when her feet reached the ground. Poor lamb. Her feet really must ache, the more so for not being used to it. Once she was inside, he drove the car back to the garage.

He had already given Lady Edith her driving lesson for the day. She was improving, bit by bit. Lady Edith was far more determined than he'd ever noticed before. She was determined in the same way Sybil was determined about things.

About women's rights, in its many incarnations.

Lady Edith was more about personal freedom, maybe. He was no Freud, but he had heard enough of the Crawley sisters over the years to know that she was the quietest, the mousiest, the most ignored, and the least confident.

Was that why she wanted to learn how to drive? To gain confidence?

Tom shook his meandering thoughts out of his mind. His mother wrote at least once a week, peppering her family gossip and whatnot with reminders to go to church. This time, she wrote about Tom's younger sister Moira becoming betrothed to her sweetheart.

Moira was four years younger than Tom. She'd found the great love of her life already and was ready to declare themselves to the world.

And here he was, teaching aristocratic girls to drive, hiding in a garage behind a great English pile, while men like him were fighting for Irish freedom.

But then there was Sybil, a girl unlike any other he'd known before. Tom chuckled under his breath. He had no chance with Lady Sybil. None whatsover. He ought to get over his puppyish feelings for her and instead, think about his future, which was uncertain. Would he get called up? Would he go or object? Return to Ireland?

What kind of job would he get in Ireland? And would he be able to forget Lady Sybil Crawley?

# # #

It was another week before Mama had a date for the orchestra and the chorus booked for the fundraiser. She made lists of things that must be done: temporary staff taken on to help Carson and Mrs. Hughes with the house, as well as a new permanent housemaid; prizes collected for the tombola, a buffet to be arranged by Mrs. Patmore, tickets to be printed and sold, invitations to be sent, programs printed...

Sybil relayed all this information to Isobel as they unpacked crates of supplies sent by the army.

It was all canned and packaged food. Odd things like condensed milk, soup in small pocket-size packets, biscuits in tins. The hospital, Isobel said, received slightly better food than the army gave out to the troops.

Sybil wondered how they could fight with such poor food. She thought about dinner last night, a four-course meal which, despite the rationing, was magnificent. The fighting boys ought to eat like that.

God knows, Mrs. Patmore could manage troops better than Haig or Kitchener. The war would've been over by now.

"Then I think it's time to start collecting prizes for the tombola," Isobel said. "We only have two weeks."

Sybil and Edith asked Branson to take them to Ripon the next day so they could shop for prizes and drop off their program at a printing shop. Sybil opened the back door the moment Branson stopped the car outside the printer's. She said, "Thank you, Branson. We'll be sure to meet you soon," and hopped out of the car. She turned to see Edith gaping at her. "What? Come on, Edith."

"But..." Edith glanced at Branson, then back to Sybil. "Oh, very well." And she followed.

"See? It's not so hard to get out of the car yourself," Sybil teased. She caught a smile on Branson's face, though he ducked his head down. She wondered what he would do while they ran their errands today. Read in the car? Sit in a tea shop? What did Tom Branson do when he wasn't working?

He really was quite handsome. Sybil saw plenty of men in the hospital, all officers, all of a class suitable to be a suitor. Sure, they were wounded and recovering and therefore, to evaluate their manners or looks seemed a petty thing. Yet still, none of them had Branson's broad shoulders or his kind blue eyes or his smile. She was willing to bet the third Countess of Grantham's precious silk wall coverings that those officers would not educate her about Mrs. Sanger or even support her interest in politics either.

Sybil sighed. Perhaps marriage was not for her. In which case, she needed to find a passion rather soon.


	9. Chapter 9

**Note: **Thanks everyone! Seriously, I really appreciate your reviews. Glad you're enjoying the story! Here is Chapter 9. Turned out to be a pretty Branson-heavy chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously.

**Chapter Nine**

"Here," Edith said. "We should get this, this, and this." She was pointing to a display of inexpensive ceramic tea sets: cups, saucers, and teapot.

"Good," Sybil agreed. She wandered over to the display of patriotic plates, showing the Union Jack and Britannia triumphing. It was a bit much, she thought, a bit too much...what was the word? _Propaganda_. Sybil smiled. One of Branson's words. Still, perhaps one of the less gauche ones wouldn't go amiss. They were raising money for the hospital for wounded soldiers, of course. Sybil carefully lifted one of the Union Jack only and held it in her arms.

"What else should we get?" Edith asked.

Sybil thought. "Maybe things that are harder to come by now? Sugar? Perhaps a stationary set, for someone to write letters to their son or husband at the front?"

"Wine, maybe?" Edith thought aloud. "Well, let's purchase this lot and we'll shop for other things."

The shopkeeper's assistant brought their purchases out to the car, where Branson helped place them in the back seat.

"We still have a few more stops, Branson," Edith said. He nodded. Sybil and Edith then went into several more shops, coming out with a bottle of wine, crystal wine glasses, several fountain pens, and a stationary set. Laden with bags, which Branson tucked into the front seat beside him this time, Sybil was about to climb into the backseat when she heard a stomach gurgle.

It wasn't hers. Sybil glanced to Branson and then to her sister.

Another stomach gurgle. Edith's eyes popped.

"Excuse me," she said. "I suppose breakfast was some time ago and I was helping Mama write out the invitations and..."

"It's quite alright," Sybil said. "Why don't we get a bite? There's a tea shop across the way."

Then she turned to Branson and said, "We're keeping you beyond the servants' lunch hour. Why don't you come, too?"

# # #

"Sybil," Lady Edith hissed. Tom opened his mouth to refuse Lady Sybil's kind and oh-so-tempting offer, but Sybil continued on.

"Oh, Edith! It's only for a half-hour at most, just some tea and cakes and sandwiches." She turned her bright blue eyes on him. Something inside melted or turned to warm goo, for Tom felt a warmth spreading in his chest at her gaze. "You didn't bring a sandwich, did you? What's wrong with eating together? We all eat the same way, I presume." She smiled teasingly.

He _was_ hungry. "I'll escort you and Lady Edith and then find a table for myself."

"But what if it's crowded and we're seated first and then you have to wait?" Sybil said. Her eyebrows knit together. "Come, Edith's about to expire from hunger."

"Oh, Sybil!" Lady Edith said. By her tone, Branson could feel her eyes rolling. "Oh, why not? I don't see anyone we might know about. Let's go."

Branson glanced up. "But...Lady Edith..."

Lady Edith shook her head. "Sybil won't give it up. You know that."

So he followed them to a tea shop, taking off his hat and turning it about in his hands as they waited to be seated. His uniform marked him as a chauffeur and even in simple day dresses, the Crawley sisters exuded gentility and wealth. They were not of the same station in life, that much was certain. Young ladies eating with their male servants as equals was not an action that was done.

But Lady Sybil seemed singularly unconcerned, even as their waitress came by and gave them all a narrow-eyed, critical look.

"We'll have tea, please?" Lady Sybil did the ordering. The woman went away. Sybil beamed at he and Edith. "Well, isn't this nice?" There were only a few other tables in the place and only three others had people sitting around it. Branson was glad to see that the others seemed to be of a less exalted situation than the Crawleys.

"She was born making statements about things," Edith said with a fond sigh. "You really are American, aren't you, Sybil?"

"We're half American."

"Have you ever been to America?" He asked, feeling like himself, finding his voice.

"No," Sybil replied. "Bit silly, really. I've always wanted to go. We've never even met Mama's brother."

Branson blinked. "You've not met your uncle?"

"No, never. Uncle Harold doesn't like to travel. We get birthday presents and Christmas cards and the occasional letter for Mama, but we've never met him!" Lady Edith said.

Branson considered that. He knew all of his uncles and he had several. One of them was his godfather. His family lived in Galway and Wicklow and Dublin, so while they were spread all over the island, they were still a large, loud, close Irish Catholic family. To not have met one of his relatives was a little inconceivable.

The tea arrived and Branson and Lady Edith reached for the tea pot at the same time. Lady Edith smiled a little and said, "I'll be mother." She set up the cups, poured the hot water over the tea, added the requested amounts of milk and sugar, and then they sat with tea, the three of them.

# # #

In front of Downton Abbey, as Sybil and Lady Edith left the car, Sybil turned to Branson and said, "Thank you for indulging my fancy, Branson."

He bowed his head just a little, a subtle movement, for William was unloading the girls' shopping from the car at that moment. What they'd done, eating together, was a simple thing, but it wasn't. A servant eating with his employer's daughters, almost as an equal? Like...friends?

Sybil's eyes were bright and she was smiling, beautiful white teeth showing, and Branson's heart began to thud-thud-thud. He wanted to break bread with her again. He wanted to chat on diverging topics and explore ideas. Explore each other.

Bloody hell. Where did that thought come from?

_You cannot_, he told himself. _Really cannot. She's too far above you._

_But she likes you and comes to see you everyday. She doesn't do that with the other servants. Just you. You're special. _

_No, you're not. _

_Could she ever see you as something more than the chauffeur? _

As a dalliance, maybe. Branson went round and got back into the car to drive it around back to the garage. She would never marry his kind. She might kiss him and let him ramble on about topics that got his blood boiling, but to actually have a relationship of some sort? No. Not at all. And Branson, a little older than Sybil, would never take advantage of her. That, too, was unthinkable.

To him, the working class Irish lad among the mostly northern English staff, he felt the need to show them that the Irish were a civilized people. They'd been under the English thumb for centuries and though he knew the rural servants who were his fellow staff did not oppress Ireland directly, they had, to some extent, absorbed the same tenets that allowed the British to remain in Ireland all these years. The same tenets that led the English to have their ridiculously large empire, which surely must fall soon, just as the Roman Empire had.

Besides, if he ever got any girl into "trouble," never mind the daughter of the Earl of Grantham, his mother would march over (yes, even across the Irish Sea, she'd march) and whup his behind, never mind that he was a full foot taller than her now.

But just because it was impossible didn't mean that he couldn't think about Sybil and dream impossible dreams, in his own corner of the Downton estate.


	10. Chapter 10

**Note: **Thanks everyone! Seriously, I really appreciate your reviews and follows and favorites! So awesome! Glad you're enjoying the story! Here is Chapter 10.

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously.

**Chapter Ten**

Sybil rose very early, long before the breakfast hour, with shadowy dreams echoing in her mind. She rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed, trying to catch the wispy nighttime visitors that were fading away.

Whatever she had dreamed, Sybil felt warm, cozy, safe, and very loved. She felt energy surge and then grabbed the book she'd been reading last night, _Northanger Abbey, _and turned on her lamp_. _Catherine Morland was far too naive for Sybil's tastes, but still, the scene where Catherine was in her room at Northanger Abbey and her candle went out always gave Sybil delicious chills.

And she quite liked Henry Tilney. Maybe not as much as she enjoyed the sensibility of Mr. Knightley or everything about Frederick Wentworth, but Henry Tilney was witty and fun and kind. He was an altogether enjoyable hero.

Who was her hero? Was there one out there, just for her?

Even as she read further on, Sybil mentally scoffed. A hero just for her! Her creed was to not need a hero, but an equal, if she chose to marry. And she was quite determined to see that marriage was a choice. Though how could it not be, with the war on? So many men, dead. Men her age and younger, dying in horrendous ways.

Sybil read more of Catherine Morland, determined to not be as naive in the face of reality as Jane Austen's young heroine.

Breakfast brought a letter from Mary, a pleasant surprise, and Sybil eagerly read it.

Mary was at Cliveden, an estate in the countryside of the Midlands. She wrote of long walks, dancing until dawn, and meeting interesting people. She had sat for a portrait for one of the guests, an artist, dressed in a "ridiculous costume full of lacy loops and a very large hat." She didn't mention anybody in particular, except to archly observe that "relations have apparently soured between the Turner-Gowers. What's the phrase about 'marry in haste' again?"

Sybil shook her head. Mary was at ease with that sort of life. Even in wartime, Mary was going to long house parties. Why couldn't Sybil feel as comfortable living the life she'd been raised to? When had she started to want more than a life of parties, shooting, dresses, house parties, and dances?

She went down to the garage after breakfast as usual, only to find Branson and the car absent. She felt disappointed. She didn't have anything in particular to pester Branson about, but talking to him grounded her. Even though, when she first started making these visits, her conversation was largely about the strife between her sisters and what she thought were problems (upper class problems, that is) Branson always listened with patience and cracking wit. He could debate and give opinions and even, once in a while, sound advice.

He was rather like Henry Tilney in that way. Not quite old enough to be Mr. Knightley, not so wayward to be Edmund Bertram, not a Wentworth. Branson was not like either of the men of _Sense and Sensibility_ and he was not Mr. Darcy. Sybil knew a few men like Mr. Darcy, ones who take their station in life far too seriously. She didn't know why Darcy was considered the archetypal romantic hero. He didn't appeal to her in the least.

Henry Tilney. Henry Tilney had come to love Catherine Morland, seeing the good and true in her.

Sybil sat down hard on the bench in the garage, feeling heat rush into her cheeks. She was definitely blushing.

Henry Tilney fell for Catherine. Branson had some of Henry's qualities. Catherine was naive, but Sybil, though she loathed to admit it, did share some qualities with Miss Morland.

Henry and Catherine grew to love each other.

Sybil buried her face in her hands.

She liked Branson. She _liked_ him. That's what all that thinking he was kind (which he was) and intelligent (which he was) and handsome (yes, that, too) had come from in the past few weeks! Oh, lord!

Sybil's stomach churned.

# # #

A girl in her position, Sybil reasoned as she sat in the backseat of the car as Branson drove her to the hospital, either developed crushes on boys she'd met through family, friends, or the Season, on boys turned into men she had grown up with, or had crushes on the male servants. It was an utterly innocent, silly sort of fleeting regard. Sybil remembered, when she was much younger, a footman who caught her eye in particular. She thought him very handsome in his suit and tails and his smile had been gleaming and made his whole face light up.

But then the footman had left Downton and Sybil forgot about him.

A crush on her chauffeur would not be extinguished quite so easily. For one thing, she and Branson were actually friends and had been since soon after his arrival three years ago. If she was suddenly shy around him, he would notice.

She didn't only like to look at him. The green uniform fit him well. Sybil had seen him out of it once, on one of his half days off, and the plain brown suit had been a bit jarring.

Branson stopped in front of the hospital. "Have a good day," he said.

"Thank you," Sybil said. She hopped out of the car.

Her thoughts of Branson drifted away as she took in the sight in front of the hospital.

An ambulance was parked outside and Dr. Clarkson and Cousin Isobel stood by it.

"Good morning," Sybil said to them, peering into ambulance. Two orderlies stood by, taking a man lying on a board between them. "New men?"

"This is just the start," Cousin Isobel said. "We're expecting twenty more today." She smiled at Sybil, kindly. "Go inside to the head nurse. She'll need all the help she can come by today."

Sybil nodded and marched into the cottage hospital.

# # #

Tom was in the garage, tightening something in the Renualt's engine, when he heard footsteps. He glanced up to see Lady Edith.

"Good morning," he said. "Have you come for your lesson? Just give me one moment..."

Lady Edith smiled. "Yes, my lesson and the printer in Ripon called to say that the programs for the concert are ready. Would you mind taking me to pick them up?"

"Not at all," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Let me finish this. I'm nearly done."

"Of course," Edith said with a bob of her head. Tom fixed his attention on the valve and the wrench. Satisfied that it was tight enough, he wiped his hands again, closed the hood, and started the car. He listened to the engine. Good, good. Sounded fixed.

"I think we ought to practice pulling in and out," Branson said. "Then more road work. Maybe on a real road instead of one on the estate."

Edith grinned in pleasure. "Do you think I'm ready for it?"

She wasn't really. She was still shaky on the road and in the car, but no one learned how to drive properly without obstacles. So he said, "Just to get you used to the idea of driving where there are other cars, my lady."

Branson took his place on the passenger's side and Edith in the driver's seat. She double de-clutched well, took the steering wheel in her hands, and made certain that her feet were in their proper place by the pedals. She slowly put her feet on the gas and the car rolled out of the garage, _vee-rr-yy_ slowly.

"Good," Branson said. "Now lean right. Let's get her up the drive."

Edith turned the steering wheel to the right, the car moving correspondingly, then she sped up a little as she drove up the sloped drive away from the garage.

"Not too fast," Branson instructed.

"Why are machines always female?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you call the car a 'her.' Why is that?"

Branson frowned. "Just convention, I guess."

"Hmm. Sybil wouldn't approve," Edith said. "Shall I turn left now?"

"Yes." Lady Edith made the turn smoothly, though very slowly. Still, Branson felt rather proud. She _was_ improving. She was doing what she wanted to do and learning what she wanted to learn. Lady Mary had better watch out. She might be thought more beautiful and elegant, but Branson was willing to bet that Lady Edith would grow to be ever more interesting.

# # #

The head nurse asked Sybil to help settle the new men, who came in all sorts of conditions. She helped the nurses cut away the men's old clothes, often dirty and sometimes infested with lice. She brought fresh clothing for each man, fetched water and soap to wash them, then took down their particulars, such as injuries, what treatment they'd had, what medicine they'd been given already as the nurse dictated to her.

"Moving on," Nurse Porter said as they finished with one man and went to see to the one in the bed next to him. Sybil turned to a new page in the notebook she was writing in. "Ready, Miss Crawley?"

"Ready."

"Good." Nurse Porter bent to look at the tag that had been attached to the soldier. "Lieutenant Raymond William Kendall of the Duke of Manchester's Own."

Sybil scribbled the rank, name, and unit down. The Duke of Manchester's Own! That was Matthew's regiment!

"Shell and shrapnel injury to the left arm and leg. Lower left leg amputated in field hospital in France. Given morphine."

Sybil noted it down. Nurse Porter frowned, staring at Lieutenant Kendall.

"Nurse Porter?" Sybil asked. Nurse Porter shook her head.

"Thank you, Miss Crawley." The nurse shook her head again. "He's so young. It's so very sad."

Sybil peered over at the soldier lying on the white sheets. His face was haggard and he was sleeping the sleep of morphine, but yes, he looked young, in his most early twenties, perhaps.

Sybil felt sorrow, the deepest she'd ever felt before. And in the face of so many injured and wounded men, all coming back to England from the war in France, Sybil wondered if they, too, felt powerless before the rage of the war. They must feel so. And if they felt powerless and hopeless, how were they ever going to win and end the war?


	11. Chapter 11

**Note: **Thanks everyone! Seriously, I really appreciate your reviews and follows and favorites! So awesome! Glad you're enjoying the story! Here is Chapter 11. We're getting closer to the concert!

**Disclaimer:** I don't Downton Abbey. Obviously.

**Chapter Eleven**

Sybil walked past a few beds where soldiers lay. One of them, Lieutenant Kendall, was awake, staring off into space. Many of the men seemed to do that, just silently stare, far past the little cottage hospital. In her last letter to Matthew, posted just this morning, Sybil mentioned Lieutenant Kendall. Did Matthew know him? Was Kendall one of his men? Was Matthew all right? It would be devastating if anything were to happen to Matthew.

Today's tasks were fairly routine and rather easy. She wrote a few letters for the men who could no longer write due to hand and arm injuries, and read letters to the men whose eyes were injured due to mustard gas. What an awful thing mustard gas was. Burns one's lungs and if it got into one's eyes, the eyes burned and turned cloudy and blindness was a real possibility.

As Sybil performed these small things for the men, who were all so grateful for her help, she watched the nurses as they bustled about, helping patients up for their constitutionals in the garden, dispensing medicine, undoing and redoing bandages, administering shots. She had come to know the nurses and what their tasks were. VADs were not medically trained, exactly. Still, they did all manners of things, including running their wards, record-keeping, and keeping track of the volunteers.

Sybil wondered at her initial ambition, when she'd heard of Vivian Macdonald's death, to become a nurse, to do some good in this bleak world. She'd let herself become intimidated by the nurses and their smart uniforms and their many and important duties. She quite liked being a volunteer, no question, and she was working hard at it and learning so much from Cousin Isobel.

But she no longer thought that she _couldn't_ be a nurse. It would take study and hard work, but Sybil was not afraid of either.

She was, however, unsure as to how to go about becoming educated as a VAD. They underwent training, but how formal was the training? Sybil had never attended school. Her entire education had been imparted by a series of governesses.

_And Branson. _

Sybil squelched down the heat she felt in her cheeks then.

# # #

Tom sipped his afternoon tea and eyed the redheaded young woman walk by the servants' hall, following Mrs. Hughes into her office. Mrs. Hughes was hiring for another housemaid; two girls had come after Gwen left and then quickly left as well. One girl...Tom couldn't remember her name, she'd been here so briefly, had left to work in a munitions factory. The second girl left to marry before her sweetheart shipped out to France.

Preparations were well under way for the benefit concert. The shopping Lady Edith and Sybil had done was laid out in an upstairs room somewhere, Anna had said. Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson were preparing the outdoor staff to built a makeshift stage. They were making arrangements for the choristers and musicians to be brought to the estate, to take tea before the concert. Mrs. Patmore was to make a buffet for the interval and dinner for the family and some guests beforehand.

The maids were cleaning the main hall, where the concert was to take place, as well as the library and dining room. Tom would pick up those attendees who were coming up by train.

But now, he sat, drinking his tea and perusing the newspaper that Sybil left for him in the garage that morning. All of the articles on the war were the same as yesterday's: vague in detail, with a thread of hope and a can-do attitude.

Tom was heartily sick of British can-do-ism as he read. Hadn't the Battle of the Somme been ongoing since July? Hadn't a million or more men died just on the first day of the battle? And for what? From what Tom had gleaned about trench warfare, mostly from socialist papers, which held a starkly different view of the war, the trenches were muddy. Extremely muddy. So muddy that the men were developing something called trench foot, in addition to other diseases. Then there was threat of mustard gas or machine guns or shells.

He saw the recruitment posters everywhere.

_Step Into Your Place!_ He saw that in York one day while driving His Lordship. The poster showed a long line of men. Lining up to join the forces and die.

_"I'll Go Too!" The Real Irish Spirit._ That one had appeared after the Easter Rising earlier this year. Tom's brother had written him about it, calling it a "piece of shite."

_Women of Britain Say "Go."_ Where had he seen that one? A line of soldiers marching away, while a woman and her children watched them off from a window. Some women were taking it all a bit too seriously. Just the other day, when he'd taken His Lordship to Beverley, Branson had seen a woman hand a white feather to one young man. He was sweeping the sidewalk in front of a shop. The white feather meant cowardice. It was meant to make a man feel shameful for not enlisting.

Good thing Tom had very little shame. With his socialist views, Tom also had a heavy dose of pacifism. It wasn't that he didn't believe in fighting at all. The Irish fight was honorable. There was a clear goal: Ireland must become independent.

But this carnage in France? Because a bunch of rich men had tangled up the entire Continent's alliances? Serve them right if they were all bloody well toppled off their thrones, their crowns thrown down, too.

He couldn't stand it. Tom often felt like this, like the passions within him, his many opinions and feelings, would burst if kept inside. And like all good Irish boys, a great deal was kept inside. Sometimes, he let his opinions out in measured amounts to Sybil. The other servants didn't understand. Many of them outright disapproved. Besides, Tom wasn't exactly flush with friends out here in the middle of the countryside. Occasionally, he'd write his thoughts down to his brothers or his mam or a cousin. But he wasn't sure that they quite understood either.

Politics, history, and reading had always been his pursuits. It made him a little funny compared to his family and friends.

Tom returned to his cottage, found a pen, and dug out a piece of paper. He began to write out his feelings, thoughts, and opinions. Slowly, the bursting feeling subsided.

# # #

Several times that day, Sybil opened her mouth to ask one of the nurses about their training. But the nurses were so very busy that day, as new men came in and several more men were moved to Farley Hall for convalescence, that she never caught one for long enough. She read a bit of Ivanhoe aloud to Lieutenant Kendall, before asking after The Duke of Manchester's Own.

"My cousin is a lieutenant in that regiment. Matthew Crawley," she said.

Kendall narrowed his eyes and then nodded.

"He's a very nice bloke. Well-liked by his men," Kendall rasped out. "Fancy that. Is this Crawley's home village?"

"It is," Sybil replied.

"Are we near London?" 

"This is Yorkshire."

Kendall blinked. "Oh. I swore the last time I saw Crawley, granted, it was some time ago, he said he was going to London on furlough. I assumed he was from near there."

Matthew had had furlough? Well, he'd been in the army for two years. Of course he must have had leave every so often. But Sybil hadn't seen him since he left for training camp. What was he doing in London?

"We miss him a great deal. Where are you from originally?"

"Just outside Manchester. My father is a judge," Kendall said. "My younger brother is so eager to join up. He's seventeen."

Sybil found that inexplicably sad. A seventeen-year-old ready to join up. Would he get shot on the field? Or catch pneumonia? Or come back broken like the men who stared and did not speak?

The draft would take more of them, surely. The landscapers, gardeners, and grooms would go. The footmen. The farmers, their sons, and their laborers. The men who worked in the shops in the village. The men she knew, aristocratic men, who had not gone with the first bout of fighting would get called up.

Would the draft take Branson as well? He was Irish, not English. But he was Irish and lived _here_.

Sybil felt chills run up and down her arms.


End file.
